


Sometimes, A Hero

by Warp5Complex_Archivist



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-03-05
Updated: 2006-03-05
Packaged: 2018-08-16 00:52:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8080306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Warp5Complex_Archivist/pseuds/Warp5Complex_Archivist
Summary: Literature, longing, envenomation, and absolution. (02/20/2004)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Kylie Lee, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Warp 5 Complex](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Warp_5_Complex), the software of which ceased to be maintained and created a security hazard. To make future maintenance and archive growth easier, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but I may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Warp 5 Complex collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Warp5Complex).

  
Author's notes: Spoilers: 2.03 "Minefield," 3.10 "Similitude," general Season 3.  
  
This is the Caption Contest Prize Fic for Helyn Highwater. Helyn wanted H/C, with a bedtime story and some humor, or romance and angst with Malcolm finding out Jon can sing. I kind of combined them both, though I'm afraid it didn't end up very funny. (Hey, it's me.) I truly hope she enjoys this anyway. The field first-aid shown here, by the way, comes from my Collins Gem "SAS Survival Guide" (p. 319) The snake Jon is thinking of is a fer-de-lance. Apparently it's not the most dangerous snake on Earth, but it is considered the most dangerous in Central America.  
  
Beta readers: Shi Shi, Kylie Lee, and Sarahâ€”because all the best things come in threes.  


* * *

"Malcolm, I can walk."

"With all due respect, sir, you're in no shape to hold yourself upright, let alone walk. We're almost there, anyway."

"Goddamit, Lieutenant, put me down!"

"No."

Jon closed his eyes, wincing in unconscious sympathy as Malcolm stumbled, almost losing his footing on the sodden ground. He was much larger than the lieutenant; he had no idea how Malcolm had managed to carry him this far, draped like a dead animal across his shoulders. His head swam at the sudden movement, and he fought back the black dots swarming in front of his eyes.

It was the venom, he figured. It had to be the venom. But his leg didn't hurt at all.

"Please, Malcolm," he said, voice suddenly raspy. He swallowed against the bile mounting in his throat. "You're exhausted. And all the jostling is making me sick again."

Malcolm stopped moving. Jon could hear the thick, heavy sound of the lieutenant's breath as he heaved it in and out of his lungs. "I'm sorry," he said quietly, spacing it out between gasps. "I'm trying to be careful."

"I know," Jon said, "It's all right." He was grateful for even this tiny respite, but it was hard to think with his head hanging down. "Just, put me down, okay? I need to be upright before I pass out."

Malcolm still didn't move. Jon could practically feel his indecision in the trembling muscles along the man's back. "If I put you down I might not be able to pick you up again."

"I told you to leave me," Jon said. His head was lolling over Malcolm's shoulder, his cheek resting along Malcolm's left arm. His face was wet, from the endless damp heat of the jungle, Malcolm's sweat, and his own.

"And I said I wouldn't." The words already had the sound of an old argument, but then Jon felt the minute shifting of Malcolm's arm as he reholstered his phase pistol, then himself tipping as Malcolm's body moved underneath him. He sighed silently in relief when his feet touched the ground, but he was careful not to put any weight on his hurt leg.

And his good leg promptly collapsed underneath him instead, folding up like cloth. Malcolm's grip immediately tightened around his waist, but Jon's weight was too much for him, and they both ended up sprawled on the ground. It was moss-covered, almost marshy, too soft for the fall to hurt, but it was muddy and smelled rank with old rot and other, more alien things. Almost instantly Jon felt the new, colder wetness of the waterlogged jungle floor seeping into his uniform.

"Damn it!" Jon swore, as soon as the terrible vertigo had receded enough to let him speak again. "I'm sorry." They were both lying on their sides, facing each other. Malcolm's arm was still around Jon's waist. They were close enough to kiss—if only Jon had been able to. If only Malcolm would let him.

"Are you all right, sir?" Malcolm's face was streaked with dirt and sweat, almost frighteningly pale in the few places where it was still clean. His eyes were hooded with exhaustion, but the concern in them was plain. They were bloodshot around irises that were the stormy gray-blue of oceans. "Your leg...?"

"I'm fine," Jon said, and the irony of the words wasn't lost on him. He had landed on his right side, but his leg hadn't hurt at all. He couldn't feel a damn thing from his right foot all the way up to his thigh. It was like dragging around a block of stone.

"Good," Malcolm said shortly. His chest was still heaving, and his arm over Jon's body was shaking. "We can't stay here. We have to get back to the shuttle."

"Go on," Jon said, panting. "Just go."

"Not without you," Malcolm said. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. The lieutenant looked so very tired. "We're almost there, anyway."

Jon swallowed. He moved his hand to the grimy shoulder of Malcolm's hot-weather uniform, as close to his face as Jon dared. His arm felt clumsy, overly heavy as if the muscles weren't working right. "You're a damn fool, Malcolm," he said.

Malcolm just smiled, a tiny, strangely sad curve of his lips. His eyes were still closed. "Yes, sir," he said.

* * *

"Just once, I'd enjoy finding a Xindi colony on a planet with a nice, temperate climate."

"I don't know, sir." Malcolm turned his head to look at Jon over his shoulder, giving the captain a half-smile. "The planet Gralik's factory was on wasn't so bad."

At Malcolm's comment, Major Matthew Hayes glanced back at them both, but immediately resumed his scanning of the jungle. He said nothing, just glancing from the instrument in his hand to the thick foliage ahead of him and back. Malcolm couldn't help thinking that the MACO was silently disproving of their joviality—or, more likely, the fact they were having a conversation at all. "It's best we make noise, Major," he said, feeling foolish that he even wanted to explain, "so that the local fauna will hear us coming."

"—And hopefully get out of the way," Jon added. He was grinning when Malcolm looked back at him again. He winked, and Malcolm could only give him a quick smile before he had to turn away, in case the captain saw him blushing. "Never been a Boy Scout, Major?"

"No," was Matthew's short reply, and Malcolm heard Jon's quiet chuckle behind him. It was wrong, he knew, to be sharing a joke—a private joke, no less—at the soldier's expense, but he couldn't help grinning himself at the Major's stiff, gray-clad back.

Not that it was particularly funny, or that there was anything terribly special about having been a Boy Scout. He was grinning far more because it had been weeks, months perhaps, since Malcolm had seen Jon truly smile, or laugh, at anything.

He'd missed it. He'd never admit that to anyone, the captain himself least of all, but he'd missed it. Sometimes it had felt like Jon had become a different man entirely since they had entered the Expanse: hard, angry, ruthless, even cruel. Barely over a year ago Malcolm had actually told Jon—his captain!—that he was too open, too friendly and casual with his crew. He had been furious with him for risking his own life to save Malcolm's. He had gone so far as to tell Jon that a proper captain, a real captain, would have left his lieutenant to die.

And then Earth had been attacked, and Jon had become precisely the kind of captain Malcolm had thought he should be, had thought he wanted. And he found himself wanting the old, too open, too friendly Jon back so much he ached.

Malcolm wasn't quite sure when it had happened, when his feelings for his captain had turned from disdain to grudging respect to...to he wasn't sure what, entirely, but it was as powerful as it was alien and frightening. He wasn't meant to feel this way, he knew, certainly not for a superior officer.

So he knew it was pathetic, even tragic, that he should feel so stupidly happy because Jon had deigned to include him in a joke. That he should be blushing because Jon had graced him with a smile. And yet his heart refused to listen, sending the hot blood to his face, making his pulse beat with a wild, terrifying rhythm like hope.

And all for a man who would never, ever look at him as anything more than a subordinate, a crewmate at best. Maybe as someone to share a joke with, or a smile. Nothing more than that.

Hadn't he ensured that very thing, after all, with what he'd said a year ago? How could he possibly imagine, that any of the experiences they had shared since might make Jon ignore the words Malcolm had so vehemently declared, had so vehemently meant at the time?

_Damn me_ , Malcolm thought. _I still mean them. I have to still mean them_.

He blinked suddenly, stopped. Up ahead, Matthew walked on, shouldering his way through the jungle as if the tangle of vines and leaves were an unruly crowd he had to muscle aside. The endless foliage closed in again a second later, completely hiding the MACO in layers of thick, verdant green.

Malcolm still didn't follow him, though he knew it meant he and Jon would have to hurry to catch up later. He just stayed still, listening.

Jon was singing. It was a gentle, formless tune, so soft that Malcolm almost hadn't heard it, had probably not heard it for some time—too consumed with his own thoughts, his own useless misery. But he recognized the words:

*At the hole where he went in Red-Eye called to Wrinkle-Skin. Hear what little Red-Eye saith: "Nag, come up and dance with death!" Eye to eye and head to head, (Keep the measure, Nag.) This shall end when one is dead; (At thy pleasure, Nag.) Turn for turn and twist for twist—(Run and hide thee, Nag.) Hah! The hooded Death has missed! (Woe betide thee, Nag!)*

Malcolm turned, his face breaking into an incredulous smile. "Rudyard Kipling?"

Jon had just started the song again, but he broke off as soon as the lieutenant spoke. He smiled back self-consciously, looking embarrassed. "It's the jungle—it reminded me of the story. I always liked the poem at the beginning."

"'Rikki-tikki-tavi.'"

"Yeah," Jon's smile became genuine again. "The Jungle Books were always my favorite."

"Mine too." He was astounded that they should share such a thing: an admiration for a British author at least three-hundred years dead and his stories of places Malcolm had never cared for and Jon had probably barely seen. "But I didn't know the verses at the beginning went with music."

"They don't," Jon said. He lifted his arm and rubbed his sleeve over his face, wiping off the sweat—and, Malcolm thought, maybe hiding. Did Jon blush too? The idea had never occurred to him. "I just made it up." Jon shrugged, gave a little laugh. "It's bad a habit of mine—I try not to do it in public."

"No, it's fine." Malcolm said quickly, hating the idea that he should have intruded like this, stolen Jon's quiet music from him. "You have a good voice." And he almost winced, for having said it aloud.

But to his surprise, Jon just laughed again, boisterously. "Flattery will get you nowhere, Lieutenant." He slapped Malcolm on the shoulder, gently steering him around. "We'd better find our MACO, before he panics and comes back for us with his rifle blazing."

"Indeed," Malcolm agreed wryly. The heat of Jon's hand seemed to travel all the way through him. "It'd be a rather inopportune way to let the Xindi know we're here."

"Luckily we're still too far away for that, then," Jon chuckled, "at least according—"

And that was exactly when they both found out that the local fauna didn't mind human voices at all.

* * *

It was a snake. A goddamned _snake_. How the hell could there be snakes on an entirely different planet? And it didn't even hiss, or rattle, or weave silently from side-to-side like the cobras did in "Rikki-tikki-tavi." It just struck out of nowhere, with no warning at all. It was as if one of the plant stalks next to his leg had just suddenly leaned over and stabbed him.

Jon cried out, remembering just in time not to scream, because a noise like that might be loud enough for the Xindi sensors to pick up. He automatically slapped at his leg as he looked down, and his palm hit something smooth and strangely oily. He yanked his hand back, horrified. The creature's tail lashed and twisted wildly, by turns changing color from dun to green as it touched either the surrounding plants or his uniform. It didn't seem to have any eyes, but it had teeth—oh God, did it have teeth, they felt like burning needles—and they were still buried in his calf.

The snake's upper jaw was gently, minutely rocking back and forth against the muscle under his knee, and Jon could feel its venom pumping into him. It burned like ice, like it feels when you touch something terribly cold. There were two wide flaps of skin on either side of the animal's head, and they undulated almost obscenely as it moved, the same exact color now as his hot-weather uniform.

And then Malcolm was there, grabbing the thing, his hand closing around the thick muscle just behind the snake's head. He yanked it off in one single motion, throwing it far away from them both, into the depths of the jungle.

Jon tried to step back, but the instant he put weight on his bitten leg, it collapsed. He fell heavily onto his back, groaning involuntarily. There were eight tooth marks in his calf, in a perfect semicircle on the far side under his knee. He pulled his leg up, clutching automatically at the wound, as if his own hands could somehow negate what had just happened. He could still feel the poison, spreading like a glacier through his veins. The bite itself hurt incredibly, like someone had poured acid into him.

"Stay still," Jon heard Malcolm say. He heard ripping, then felt something being tied around his upper thigh. "Captain." Malcolm's voice was calm, only an unusual tightness to it showing his true concern. Jon felt one of the lieutenant's hands on his shoulder, the other on the side of his face, forcing him to turn towards the voice, to open his tightly- shut eyes. "Captain. Can you stand?"

"I don't know," Jon admitted. He felt sick, shaky—probably shock and adrenaline. Unless it's the poison already, he thought, like a fer-de- lance, in which case he was already dead. Was it fer-de-lance that had the venom that killed you three steps after you were bitten, or was that some other snake? He blinked up into Malcolm's worried face, those astonishing gray-blue eyes. He had to concentrate, move, get up. "Hurts like hell."

Malcolm just nodded. Jon saw him reach automatically for his right sleeve, where they kept their communicators in their normal uniforms, but his hand closed into a fist and he pulled it away. His left arm was bare; he'd ripped his sleeve off at the shoulder to tie it around Jon's leg. "Damn," he whispered. He reached for Jon instead. "Help me to get you up—we've got to get you back to the shuttle."

"No," Jon said, swallowing. He didn't want to pull his hands from his leg, but he knew he had to if he wanted to move. "We have to find the weapon."

"Here," Malcolm said, as if he hadn't heard him, and Jon felt the lieutenant's hands on him, trying to help him upright.

"I'm not the priority, Lieutenant," Jon said, "leave me here. You can come back later. That's an order!" he added, when it was obvious Malcolm wasn't listening.

"You've just been poisoned, sir," Malcolm said evenly, "I'm afraid that makes you my priority at the moment. And I won't compromise our mission by leaving you where any Xindi might stumble over your carcass." He was still trying to lever Jon upright.

Jon refused to help him, making his body into a dead weight. "I told you to leave me!" He was all but snarling. "This is insubordination."

"I'll willingly take whatever discipline you deem necessary, once we reach the ship," Malcolm said. His voice reminded Jon of stone. "But I'm not leaving you."

"The fate of Earth might depend on what we find here, Malcolm!" Jon's voice rose dangerously, and he winced at a sudden rush of dizziness.

"It also might well depend on who's running the ship," Malcolm snapped back. He placed his hand over his phase pistol holster as Jon glared at him. "Don't make me stun you, sir," he said. His voice had risen in pitch, showing his agitation, but his stance, that hand covering the gun, didn't waver. Jon had no doubt Malcolm would shoot him.

"This isn't over, Malcolm," Jon spat, but Malcolm only nodded in reply. Malcolm knelt so he could put his arm around Jon's waist, pulling Jon's arm across his shoulders.

"Ready?" Malcolm waited for Jon's grudging nod, then slowly heaved them both upright. Jon gathered his good leg under him, wincing every time his right leg had to move. "Lean on me," the lieutenant instructed. "Keep your leg still as you can." He waited again until Jon had shifted so he was balanced as well as possible. "All right?" Malcolm asked. Jon nodded again, and they finally began to move, back the way they had originally come.

"What about Major Hayes?" Jon asked. He glanced over his shoulder, wishing the MACO were there. He had no idea how much farther ahead Matthew had gone while Jon had been rolling around on the ground, clutching his leg. They couldn't use their communicators to contact him, either, any more than they could use them to contact the ship; the likelihood that the Xindi would discover them—both the three-man away team and _Enterprise_ itself, currently hidden on the far side of the planet's single moon—was much too great. They couldn't risk that, not when they still had no idea if this colony was the location of the planet-killing weapon. The small movement caused another surge of light-headedness, and Jon stumbled. Malcolm grunted as the lieutenant was forced to shift position to keep them both from falling. "Sorry," Jon muttered.

"It's all right," Malcolm said. "Hopefully Major Hayes will realize we're not behind him, and retrace our steps." He answered Jon's original question. His voice already sounded strained, and Jon tried to take more of his own weight onto his left leg. "Don't do that," Malcolm admonished mildly. "You'll unbalance me." Jon shifted again, and Malcolm continued, "Either that, or keep with the original objective and try to determine if the weapon is located here." He had let go of Jon's wrist so that he could carry his phase pistol. His eyes were darting everywhere, carefully studying the ground and the foliage around and above them before taking each step, though he glanced at Jon once as he spoke. The spongy ground seemed to swallow each footprint as if they'd never existed.

"He'll keep with the original objective," Jon said, hoping it was true. "Finding that weapon is more important than what happens to us."

Malcolm said nothing.

Jon sighed. "Damn," he swore, though he was careful to keep his voice quiet, "I can't believe this. Bitten by a goddamned snake."

"I'm sorry, sir," Malcolm said. "I was right next to you and I never even saw it." He still had his eyes on the ground.

"It's not your fault, Malcolm," Jon said tiredly, "I didn't notice it until it bit me, and I was practically touching the damn thing." He blinked sweat out of his eyes. "I've never seen camouflage like that. Amazing."

Malcolm gave a slight chuckle. "One for the exobiology badges."

"Yeah." Jon laughed too, then wished he hadn't when the nausea it caused was suddenly more than he could manage. "Stop," he gasped.

Malcolm stopped instantly, tightening his arm around Jon's waist. "What? What is it?"

"I'm going to be sick," Jon said, and then was, violently. Malcolm held him upright the whole time.

"Oh god...Jesus," Jon choked when his stomach had finally stopped shuddering. He wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, wordlessly nodding his thanks to Malcolm when the lieutenant handed him his open canteen. He rinsed his mouth between breaths, spitting the water onto the ground. The absorbent, green-carpeted soil uncomplainingly sucked up everything. He was thirsty, but didn't drink, unsure if it was wise considering the alien poison circulating in his veins.

"Can you continue?" Malcolm asked as he took the canteen back.

Jon nodded, then glared at him. "I told you to leave me here," he said, "Hell, I shouldn't even be moving, should I? It's spreading the venom."

"I know," Malcolm said quietly. "But I don't have much choice." For a second he looked absolutely stricken. "I'm sorry." He still held Jon tightly, keeping him upright.

"You know damn well you have a choice. I already gave it to you."

"Yes," Malcolm said. His voice had become even quieter, but his eyes were resolute. "But not one I could live with."

They went on.

It was some time after that when Jon realized his right foot had gone numb, but at least the bite didn't hurt anymore. That was something.

* * *

Malcolm lay across from Jonathan, where they had both fallen, his nose full of the smell of the wet earth and his face wet where it was pressed into the ground. His hand was wet too, wet with sweat and warm against Jon's back, and they were near enough that he could feel the hot puffs of air against his face every time Jon breathed. Jon had put his hand against the curve where Malcolm's shoulder became his neck, the pad of his large thumb just touching the rounded end of his collarbone.

"You're a damn fool, Malcolm," Jon said.

Malcolm had to smile at that, because he was, he was; it was so very true. "Yes, sir," he said. He kept his eyes closed, not moving. It was so nice not to be moving, not to have to carry Jon's substantial weight. He would carry him to the ends of the Earth if he had to (the ends of _this_ Earth, he amended), there was no question about that, no matter how much Jon fought or threatened. But the soggy ground made even walking unencumbered difficult, and Jon likely weighed almost twice as much as he did. He was terribly tired.

And as long as he stayed still, he could leave his arm around Jonathan, with his hand against Jonathan's back. As long as he didn't move, he could have Jonathan's palm resting on his neck.

But he couldn't stay like this. Jon was hurt, poisoned. They had to get to their shuttlepod, get back to the ship. He reluctantly opened his eyes. "We have to keep moving, sir," he said.

"Give me a minute, Malcolm," Jon said, "I need a minute." He was still breathing heavily, as if he'd just come through a great exertion. His hair looked almost black, soaked through with the damp of the jungle and his own sweat. His face, where it wasn't smeared with dirt, was sickly gray, no blood in it at all.

"I'm sorry," Malcolm said, hating that he had to say it, "but I can't. We have to keep moving." Dear lord, but it looked like the man was dying, like he'd stop breathing right there in the wet dirt. "Come on," he cajoled gently. "We're almost there."

"A minute, Malcolm," Jon gasped. His eyes were closed, the lids almost translucent. "Please."

Malcolm swallowed. "I'm sorry," he said again, meaning it more than he ever had in his life.

Jon's eyes opened, deep and beautifully green; a moment later, Malcolm felt Jon's thumb move gently back and forth along his collarbone, a tiny caress over wet skin. Jon smiled, and Malcolm felt his heart thrumming again with mad, unfettered hope. "I was thinking of how you refused to let me save you from that mine," Jon said. His eyes were strangely sad.

"I didn't want you to endanger yourself," Malcolm said, his voice suddenly rough. "Or the crew..." He had almost died then. He should have. Only his captain's stubbornness, his insane plan, had saved him. He wasn't sure if he'd ever told Jon how truly grateful he was for that.

"I know," Jon said. He hadn't stopped the movement of his thumb. If anything, the gentle pressure was slightly greater—more obvious, more deliberate. "It would have killed me if you'd died, Malcolm." Jon said it so casually, despite his fatigue, that Malcolm was nearly certain he'd imagined it, that Jon hadn't actually spoken.

Jon's hand moved from Malcolm's shoulder. It seemed to take an inordinate amount of strength for him to lift his arm, but he still drifted a ghosting touch over Malcolm's cheek. "We should probably get going."

"Yes, sir," Malcolm whispered. He wanted to touch his face, where Jon's fingers had been. But he just pulled himself upright instead, then reached for Jon, helping to lever his body into a sitting position, with his right leg stretched out. Malcolm's arms started trembling again at even that small effort, and his legs ached every time he moved. He had no idea how he'd manage to get Jon onto his shoulders again.

Well, he would, that was all. He'd get the captain back to the shuttle if it killed him.

Malcolm took a deep breath, licking his lips. "All right," he said. He gathered his legs under him, taking Jon's arm and preparing to pull him over his back. But he stopped, going completely still. Jon opened his mouth to speak, to ask what was wrong, but Malcolm gave a tiny hiss, silencing him.

He had heard something—something bipedal coming towards them. And it wasn't Major Hayes. It wasn't anything human.

Malcolm lifted his head until his lips were almost touching Jon's ear. "Xindi," he whispered, barely giving enough breath to form the word. Jon silently nodded his understanding.

Malcolm glanced up quickly, taking in the dense green surrounding them. The hanging tree limbs and flowing vines closed in like a living cave, hot and oppressive, leaving them mostly in shadow flecked with odd dapples of sunlight.

To their immediate left was the base of an ancient tree; its alien, scaled bark was mottled with thick, almost plush areas of what looked like brown moss. There were huge buttress roots growing out in natural V shapes from the main trunk, helping anchor the huge tree to the earth.

He checked the tree itself and the plants around it for possible dangers, taking as much time as he dared. As far as he could tell, it was safe.

Standing quickly, Malcolm moved behind Jon and grabbed him under his arms, walking backward so he could drag him into the small shelter afforded by the curved tree trunk. He quickly and silently as he could, this time grateful for the spongy biomass under his feet, all the while listening for the Xindi, but although now he could hear the unmistakable murmurs of their alien conversation, it seemed they would walk past them. Malcolm had to grit his teeth tightly to keep from panting, but the plant- and leaf-covered ground—and thank heaven for small mercies—showed no sign of their passage.

Jon, for his part, kept perfectly quiet, trying to help Malcolm by pushing against the ground with the heel of the foot he could still move. It kept slipping, pathetically ineffectual against the unresisting earth.

It was a very short distance from where the two men had fallen to the largest V of the buttress roots that Malcolm had chosen. All the same, he was sweating fiercely by the time he had Jon settled with his back against the trunk, and it was hard work to keep breathing silently.

The roots were large enough that with Jon lying back, it would be almost impossible to notice him unless he was being specifically searched for. Nonetheless, Malcolm crouched in front of him, and began scraping back the moss next to his foot, scooping out chunks of the thick, moist earth while Jon watched him curiously. "Sorry" he mouthed to Jon, then began smearing the muddy dirt over his face and the still-clean parts of his uniform. "Camouflage," he whispered when Jon grimaced. Jon gave him a quick nod and said nothing.

When Jon was almost the same color as the tree he was leaning against, Malcolm stepped back, giving him a brief nod and smile. He began pulling his phase pistol from its holster, but Jon's groping hand landed heavily over Malcolm's, stilling him. When Malcolm looked at him, Jon's expressive eyebrows were raised, his confusion, his concern evident despite the coating of mud on his face.

Malcolm jerked his head in the direction he had last heard the Xindi voices, then put his finger to his lips. He tried to turn and leave their enclosure, but Jon's hand didn't move. The captain shook his head weakly, but it was still a firm, obvious denial.

Malcolm sighed inwardly, but only leaned forward so his mouth was right next to Jon's ear. "I'm going to lead them away from here, sir," he whispered as quietly as he could. "I can't risk them finding you or our shuttle. I promise I'll be back as soon as I can."

And then he moved his head, ever so slightly, just enough to touch his lips to Jon's hot, muddy cheek.

It had been instinctive, almost automatic, born from Jon's touch and his words and that awful hope in Malcolm's heart. Malcolm jerked back, as if that brief touch had burned him, and Jon lost his grip on his hand. His eyes met Jon's again, wide with surprise, green like the jungle around them. "I'm sorry!" Malcolm said, his voice harsh, louder than he'd intended. "I—Oh God, I'm sorry."

And he ducked away, all but running into the jungle, the ground keeping his feet silent, his progress soundless, save for the barest whispers of the dangling leaves and vines brushing over him.

He didn't see, behind him, Jon touching his hot, shaking fingers to his face, his eyes bright with wonder, as if he'd just been given a blessing.

* * *

Hours had passed, and Malcolm wasn't back yet. At least, it felt like hours, in the hot, grubby wet, the stink of his own sweat and the mud that coated him. It had to be hours.

Jon leaned back against the tree, trying again to find a more comfortable position. His mouth twitched as the knobby wood dug like knuckles into his back. His legs were stretched out in front of him, useless. Dead things both, though only one was thickly swollen, only one completely numb now to the very top of his thigh.

He wondered if he couldn't feel anything because the nerves were dead, if that was how the venom worked, cutting off all the paths that provided sensation to his brain. Maybe this was what dying from it was going to feel like: just a slow spread of numbness until his entire body felt nothing. Did you have to feel your heart to keep it beating?

He felt awful—feverish and sick, so weak he couldn't even bend his left leg anymore, let alone stand. His arms hung loose in his lap, only trembling hopelessly whenever he tried to move them. And his head—his head felt like a lump of stone. It was all he could do to rest it against the moss-covered bark. His thoughts were like weights he could barely shove around to form something coherent.

Gangrene was supposed to be something like this, he thought. He had read that once, in a story a very long time ago. It had been about a man—a writer, Jon remembered—who died because he got a scratch on his leg. The story took place in Africa; and had been, funnily enough, one of the reasons Jon had wanted to badly to go there, despite it being about a man dying. It had been the obvious love and respect the author had for a place that could kill so easily.

But the gangrene worked like that: when it got so bad it didn't hurt anymore, it meant the rot was killing you, poisoning your body. That was when you knew you were dying.

He didn't want to die like this. Not here, not now, not when all those billions of people on Earth were depending on him. He was terrified of dying before the job was finished, before he even knew if they'd even succeed or not. He had failed so badly already, so many times. He had done such terrible things. He didn't want to die without knowing if any of the brutality, the cruelty, the callousness would ever be worth it. If he died now, it might all be for nothing. He couldn't stand the idea of it all being for nothing.

He didn't want to die like this, because Malcolm had kissed him. At least, Jon thought he had. It had felt like a kiss, anyway, a touch of lips to his skin. And that was too wonderful a thing to lose by dying. It would be terrible to die before he knew whether it had really been a kiss—if Malcolm had really meant it. It would be terrible to die before he could tell Malcolm that he had wanted that kiss more than the lieutenant could possibly imagine; that he'd been touched, to receive what he'd hoped to have for so long, that the kiss had honored him. He didn't want to die before he could tell Malcolm not to be upset. It would be terrible to never have a chance to kiss the lieutenant in return.

But Malcolm hadn't come back yet, and it had been hours. He was still out there, somewhere in the endless jungle, trying to lead the Xindi away from him and their hidden shuttlepod. Jon had no idea if what Malcolm had heard had been a routine patrol, or a group sent specifically to find them, or just some colonists with no idea about Earth or the weapon at all.

Like Gralik, who had been so gratifyingly horrified at what his people had done. Jon almost missed that stoic, surprisingly gregarious Xindi—he had reminded Jon of what their mission had been about in the first place, before the attack on Earth that had changed everything.

He missed the first contacts. He missed exploring. He missed being happy. God, he would give anything to be happy again. Maybe, maybe if Malcolm loved him the way he loved the lieutenant, he could be, if only for the brief moments between the stress and the fear and the gnawing reminders that if they failed an entire world would die.

Jon sighed, shifted his leaden head stiffly on his leaden neck, loathing his helplessness, wishing there were something he could do. He blinked a new trail of muddy sweat out of his eyes, tried to lift his arm so he could wipe his forehead on his sleeve. His arms wouldn't move, so he just tilted his head back and did nothing. He licked his lips, tasting sweat and the foul grit of dirt. He was terribly thirsty now. Malcolm had left him both the canteens, but he couldn't drink from them if he couldn't use his hands. He wanted Malcolm to come back so the lieutenant could give him some water.

And kiss him. Just one more kiss. It would make him so happy.

He blinked again, his eyes full of sweat and mud and maybe tears, and then Malcolm was right there, as if Jon had conjured him, as if his want and hope and desire had created him, pulled him back out of the jungle.

"Thank God," Jon whispered. The weakness of his own voice shocked him.

Malcolm smiled down at him, not speaking. He was standing hunched, still holding his phase pistol. One hand was clutched protectively over his stomach. His face was like chalk beneath the dappled light and the green. Was that _blood_ on his lips? Jon's head was swimming and it was hard to see, everything blurring like he was looking up through water. But there was no mistaking the deep red oozing thickly between the fingers of Malcolm's filthy hand.

"Malcolm?" Jon swallowed. He could still feel his heart, and it jumped into a frenzied, terrified rhythm.

"I'm sorry, sir," Malcolm said. His voice was nothing, barely a puff of air. "They saw me." He had to stop to gather his strength. "But I...I'm fairly sure I got them all before they could report back." He sucked in air, eyes squeezing shut against an obvious surge of pain. He moaned and dropped to his knees. Jon tried to reach for him, but his weakened body wouldn't move.

"Oh, God." Malcolm bent over, as if trying to contain his agony, and his pistol dropped to the ground so he could wrap both his arms over his wound. Jon tried to reach for him again; the frustrated need to move almost burning along his nerves. As Jon watched, Malcolm's pain finally seemed to retreat to something bearable, and the lieutenant slowly unclenched, gasping and blinking his eyes. Jon saw him grope for the phase pistol, then slide it into its holster, the grip smeared with blood. Malcolm turned, shuffling around awkwardly on his knees until he was able to sag back against the tree next to Jon, his legs splayed out in front of him. He sat there, breathing heavily, his arms still over his stomach, his wide eyes staring out at nothing.

"What happened?" Jon asked. He kept trying to touch Malcolm, to pull him into his arms, to do anything. His hands trembled like dying birds.

"I made a mistake," Malcolm said. He wiped at his mouth with his remaining sleeve, smearing blood over his lower lip. Jon could hear the self-disgust, even through the weakness of the lieutenant's voice. "I closed up with one, so he couldn't fire. But..." He winced, panting. "But I...became distracted. Didn't block the knife."

"Distracted?" Jon's hands were practically burning with the need to touch him.

Malcolm crooked his mouth up into a apologetic half-smile. "Thought I saw a snake."

Jon smiled at that, because it was the only thing he could do. He wanted to laugh. He wanted to cry.

* * *

"I'm...so sorry, sir," Malcolm said. It was becoming harder and harder to speak. He felt himself sliding against the tree trunk, not entirely able to stop the movement. His temple came to rest against Jon's shoulder; the captain's skin was like a furnace beneath the thin cloth of his hot-weather uniform. "I can't carry you anymore." With an effort he lifted his head so he could look Jon in the eye.

Jon's eyes were clouded, dull with fever. "You should have left me there."

Malcolm swallowed thickly, then closed his eyes as he fought back more pain. His stomach acid was eating into the wound. He knew he should take his shirt off, use it to staunch the bleeding, but the idea of moving that much was more than he could handle at the moment. "They would have found you."

Jon sighed. "I need some water," he said. "I can't raise my hands."

"Of course, sir," Malcolm said. "Sorry." It hurt to move the minute amount it required to pick up the canteen, was almost excruciating to lift it, but Malcolm said nothing. It was the least he could do, after all, now that he'd failed so badly, doomed them both. He patiently held the flexible container to Jon's lips until Jon pulled his head away. There were red streaks of blood on the silver material when Malcolm dropped it again. Malcolm was incredibly thirsty, but he didn't dare drink himself.

"Thank you," Jon whispered. He took a breath. "I probably shouldn't have done that." Malcolm raised his eyebrows in question, and he saw Jon try to shrug in response. "It might help spread the venom."

"Oh," Malcolm said softly. Jon was too weak to move; it terrified him. "I have...to get you...out of here." It was astonishingly difficult to move his left hand from his stomach. He reached automatically for his right arm, wincing as even the slow movement caused more pain. He blinked when his hand smacked against smooth cloth, instead of the zippered arm- pocket he was expecting. He had forgotten he was wearing the lighter, hot-weather gear, instead of his blue uniform.

"Don't," Jon said, the order in his voice plain despite there being no force behind it. "Don't do it, Malcolm."

"I'm sorry, sir," Malcolm said. Left hip pocket. That's where the damn thing was. The whole front of his uniform trousers was soaked with blood, making the zipper pull slick and difficult to hold on-to.

"Malcolm!"

"I have to, sir," Malcolm panted. He had his eyes squeezed shut, trying to pull the communicator from his pocket. How could such a tiny movement hurt so damn much? "You have...to get...back to the...ship."

"Goddamit, Malcolm!" Malcolm knew Jon would be shouting if he'd been able to, despite the danger it might put them in. "Stop it! Just stop!"

"I have to save you!" Malcolm's rasping outburst had barely more strength than a whisper, but a second later, he was still gasping, trying to swallow back the wave of pain radiating out from his abdomen. He could feel new rivulets of sweat coursing down his back, behind his ears. "Oh God," he breathed, then grit his teeth, forcing himself to keep breathing.

"You should have left me." Jon said. "Look what's happened to you. I'm not worth this!" He hissed, but he didn't sound angry anymore. He sounded...he sounded almost ashamed, though Malcolm had no idea why. "I'm not worth it."

You are, Malcolm thought, you're worth everything. But he didn't have enough strength to say it. He had his communicator in his hand now, the warm metal sticky with his blood.

"Please, Malcolm!"

It was the "please" that did it. It wasn't an order—The captain was begging him. Malcolm forced his eyes open, turned to look at Jon again.

"Please," Jon said again, "If the Xindi track our frequency, they'll find _Enterprise_. They'll know we're here."

Malcolm smirked ruefully, then had to shut his eyes again at how much it hurt. "I fear I've...already ensured that, Captain."

"You don't know that," Jon said. When Malcolm was able to open his eyes he was starting right into Jon's green ones, and they were anguished and imploring. "Don't do it," Jon repeated. "Please. Don't let this be for nothing."

Malcolm just looked at Jon for a long moment, holding the communicator in one trembling hand. Finally, he nodded. He dropped the device to the wet ground, then used both hands again to press against his wound. Don't let it be for nothing, he thought. But it felt like he was condemning Jon to die.

"Thank you," Jon breathed.

But Malcolm couldn't answer him.

* * *

Jon didn't know how much time passed, although he thought maybe no more than an hour or two. At some point he fell into heavy, dizzy sleep, only to wake up, thick-headed and disoriented, to the sound of someone shivering.

"Malcolm?" Jon blinked stupidly at him. It took a long time for his eyes to focus, longer to remember where he was, what they were doing there. "What's wrong?" He was hot; they were in a jungle. Jungles were always hot. Why was Malcolm shivering?

"S—sorry, sir." Malcolm was shaking so hard his teeth were actually chattering. His face was slate gray, pouring with sweat. "C—cold..."

"You're cold?" They were in a jungle—it made no sense. Then Jon's understanding trickled back like water and his guts stilled in fear. "You're going into shock."

Malcolm just looked at him blankly. His arms were wrapped around his abdomen, both forearms pressed to his wound. Jon could see with a glance it was still bleeding, oozing slow red over Malcolm's arms.

"Come here," Jon said. He tried to physically pull the lieutenant to him, but he could only lift his hands a few millimeters above his thighs before they fell back. Malcolm was watching him with a dull fascination, still shaking violently. "Come here," Jon repeated. "You have to get warm."

Malcolm looked from Jon's hands back to his face, but he still didn't move.

"That's an order, Lieutenant!" That seemed to get through to him: Malcolm slowly shifted himself until he was sitting between Jon's legs, with his back pressed to his captain's chest. By the time he was finally leaning against Jon, he was whimpering, body rigid with agony.

"That's it," Jon soothed. "Now take my arms and wrap them around you, okay?" He couldn't hear if Malcolm answered, but Jon could feel him pulling Jon's limp arms across his abdomen. Malcolm's hands were icy cold. "Just lean back against me, all right?"

Malcolm complied wearily, slumping back against him, with his head falling against Jon's shoulder.

"You should be lying down," Jon said, wishing he could pull Malcolm closer to him. He felt stupid for not insisting that Malcolm lie down earlier—it was standard procedure for bad bleeding. He would have laid them both down now, if he'd been at all capable of even tipping over.

"I know," Malcolm whispered. Jon could feel his voice buzzing against his neck. "It...would...have hurt...too much."

"I can't help you if you pass out, Malcolm."

He could feel the tiny, warm curve of Malcolm's smile. "At least...I wouldn't...be in pain."

Jon swallowed. "Don't talk like that."

"Sorry."

"It's all right," Jon said. He moved his head slightly, so his chin was against Malcolm's forehead. It was the only comfort he could give.

Malcolm was quiet for so long after that that Jon had was certain he had passed out. Only his quick but steady breathing kept him from panicking; each exhale meant that Malcolm was still holding on, not sliding toward death. All they could do now was wait, and hope that Matthew Hayes would find them.

Jon started, surprised, when Malcolm shifted in his arms. "Sorry," he said quickly when his movement brought a grunt of pain.

"S'okay," Malcolm said. He wasn't shivering anymore at least, which Jon hoped was a good thing. "I was...thinking. Wanted...to thank you."

"Why?" Jon asked, incredulous. What could Malcolm want to thank _him_ for? For being stupid enough to get a snakebite? For sitting helplessly while the man he—No. He wasn't going there. He wouldn't—while a crewmember he cared about slowly bled to death from an agonizing stab wound? "You have nothing to thank me for."

"For saving Trip," Malcolm said, as if Jon hadn't spoken. "My...best friend. Never had...one before. You saved him. Thank you."

Jon felt his blood turn to ice, a different kind of shock. "You mean Sim," he said. His voice felt thick, like he had to force the name past his throat. "You mean, because I ordered Sim to be born." And die, and ordered him to die as well, or so close to it that the distinctions were irrelevant.

There was a wet sliding, from Malcolm's sweat-covered forehead against Jon's chin as he nodded. Jon could feel him gathering the energy to speak. "I wouldn't have...done it. Not what Trip wanted. Let...him die. Not you. Owe you...for that." There was another silence as Jon held the sudden, unwelcome press of tears back, and Malcolm breathed. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me." Jon was whispering, hoarse, but his words still had all the harshness he intended. He swallowed again; his throat was on fire, from keeping back tears he had no right to shed. "I forced him to die, Malcolm." Jon closed his eyes, as if that could somehow shut away the horror of what he had done. "Sim begged me to let him live, but I wouldn't...God, Malcolm—I would have murdered him." He blinked, breathing heavily, feeling the tears come. "I would have strapped him to that biobed." His voice dropped so that even he could barely hear it. "I did murder him."

"For Trip," Malcolm said softly.

"For Trip," Jon repeated. He licked his lips and tasted sweat and mud and tears. "For our mission. I—" He took a shuddering breath. "I couldn't imagine continuing without him." He let his head fall heavily back against the tree. "All for the mission," he whispered. His next breath choked out on a sob, but he couldn't stop that now, any more than he'd been able to stop the worthless tears. "All for the goddamned mission. I've done so many terrible things..." Jon ducked his head. Malcolm's forehead was still resting against his face; Jon thought he might be getting tears in the lieutenant's hair.

"You...remember...Rikki-tikki-tavi?"

Jon sniffed, confused. He wished he could wipe his eyes. "What?"

"The story," Malcolm said. He let his head fall back, so he was facing out instead of leaning against Jon's face or neck. "Nag and...Nagaina?"

"Yes," Jon said. "They were the two cobras, the ones the mongoose killed."

"Nag first," Malcolm said. His voice was faint, his face creased and drawn with pain, but he knocked his head deliberately against Jon's when the captain didn't immediately acknowledge him. "Nag first...Remember?"

"Yes." Jon nodded quickly. "Rikki-tikki-tavi killed Nag first. Nagaina was his wife."

"She had eggs," Malcolm gasped, nodding a little. "Cobra babies. Rikki...killed them...Brought last one to...Nagaina...Showed her..." "Rikki-tikki-tavi's adopted family were outside, eating breakfast or something." Jon's mouth curved in the barest hint of a smile. "I always loved that part—how the father grabbed Teddy and pulled him across the table, so he wouldn't get bitten. I knew my father would have done that, too." It was one of the reasons he had loved that story so much, had read it so many times that he'd memorized the poem.

"When I...was little..." Malcolm was fighting to form the words, "I hated that...Rikki killed... _babies_. Defenseless...children...Eggs..." Malcolm broke off, and Jon could feel him shuddering with the effort speaking had cost him.

"You shouldn't talk, Malcolm," Jon said. "You need to keep your strength."

"No," Malcolm insisted, "this is...important." He took a deep breath. "I went to my father...asked him, how could Rikki _do_ that? Kill those babies? He was good. He was...the hero...but this...was evil. Wrong."

Jon went entirely still. He could feel the tainted blood chugging through his heated veins. "What did your father say?"

"He said..." Malcolm stopped. He lifted one hand away from his stomach, cupping Jon's face. The touch was incredibly gentle. Malcolm's fingers were warm now, wet with his blood. Malcolm leaned his head back, making Jon look at him. "He said...sometimes...a hero has to do terrible things."

Jon stared at Malcolm. It hurt to speak. "I'm no hero."

Malcolm smiled at him, as warm and gentle as his touch. His hand was still resting lightly against Jon's face. "You are...the truest hero...I have ever known."

Jon blinked. He could feel the tears beginning to pool again, damn him. It had to be the fever, stripping him of any emotional strength he'd ever possessed. His voice was tremulous, awed, when he spoke. "That's how you think of me?"

"Always," Malcolm said.

"I love you, Malcolm." Jon said. He hadn't meant to, hadn't meant to at all, certainly hadn't wanted to admit it. But the look in Malcolm's eyes—a wonder, a joy that transcended his pain—made it worthwhile, made it more than all right.

"Thank you," Malcolm said, and it sounded to Jon like Malcolm thought he had received the greatest gift he had ever imagined. And he leaned in then, ever so slightly, and his lips brushed Jon's in another kiss, a real one, just like before. Malcolm kissed him. Malcolm, who thought he was a hero.

Malcolm's lips were rough, and overly cool. They tasted of dirt, and sweat, and rain, and blood.

* * *

The sound of something moving through the leaves woke Jon again.

The sun was finally going down on the fetid sauna of a jungle, cooling the air and making Jon shiver as his sweat began drying against his skin. He pulled Malcolm closer to him, relieved and grateful beyond measure that he had regained some movement. His fever was falling, too. Pins and needles had replaced the pervasive numbness in his right leg, creeping steadily into welcome, throbbing pain. Whatever the snake had injected him with, it seemed his body was fighting it off on his own; he wasn't dying after all.

Ironic. Miserably, fucking ironic, because Malcolm was the one who was dying.

The lieutenant had passed out at least an hour ago, by Jon's reckoning, despite Jon being able to move enough to tip both of them onto their sides. Jon still held Malcolm, spooned up against him now. Malcolm's pulse was weak and thready, his breath coming in faint, sad little puffs that barely seemed to stir his lungs. His face was like granite, sheened with sweat. As soon as he'd been put on his side, he'd vomited up a frightening amount of blood.

He was bleeding out in Jon's arms, and Jon was still too weak to do anything about it.

He hadn't meant to fall asleep, but he was still sick enough that he had, until the sound of moving woke him. It wasn't an animal; whatever it was walked upright, pushing the jungle aside, like a human.

Or a Xindi. Jon went as still as possible, tried not to breathe, to make any noise. He could barely move, was completely unarmed—they were both lying on their holsters, and Jon couldn't lift himself to get his pistol.

Please, he begged silently, holding Malcolm to him as if his arms, his will alone, could offer some kind of protection, please don't let it all have been for nothing.

A rustling. Someone standing right there, looking down at them. Jon took a breath, lifted his eyes.

It was Major Hayes, his weapon pointed, fatigues ripped and streaked with dirt. There was a large bruise on his face, noticeable even in the fading light. A small circlet of blood seamed under one of his eyes.

"Sir," he said, and if there was relief, or worry, or anything in that voice at all other than the formality of duty, Jon couldn't hear it. "Are you and the lieutenant all right?"

"No," Jon said. He tried to push himself upright and failed. "Lieutenant Reed's been stabbed—he needs medical attention. You have to get him to the shuttle pod."

"Yes, sir." Matthew's nod was curt and controlled. His keen gaze flickered to Malcolm and back. "And you, sir?"

Jon managed a grim smile. "I'll be fine," he said, "take Malcolm."

Matthew knelt obediently, gently turning Malcolm so he could get him into his arms. His eyes widened fractionally at the sight of the wound, then flicked back to Jon, questioning.

"Stabbed," was Jon's terse answer. "Hurry."

Matthew gathered Malcolm up like he was a kitten, cradling him surprisingly gently against his chest. His eyes widened again when he saw that Jon didn't move. "Sir?"

"Get him to the shuttle," Jon ground out. "Come back for me. I'll be fine."

Matthew hesitated, obviously torn. He had more in common with Malcolm than either of them would likely ever realize.

"Go!" Jon commanded, lying on the wet ground. "I gave you an order!"

"Yes, sir," Matthew said. He looked agonized, horrified at his own actions. But he was too disciplined not to obey. Jon watched him turn and stride off into the forest, heading for the shuttle, shouldering the leaves and branches out of his path.

"Thank god," Jon breathed, well after the major was gone. He was colder now, without Malcolm next to him. He tried to push himself off the ground again. He got a little higher this time before he fell back into the wet and the mud. But still, he was smiling.

"Hah! The hooded Death has missed!" he whispered out into the gathering night. Then he lay quietly, and waited for Matthew to come get him.


End file.
